Character Studies
by Makhsi
Summary: Vignettes, drabbles, and short scenes focusing on one character at a time. I'm trying to get a good feel for the cast of BBC'S Sherlock before I start a full-length piece of fanfic. So far: Anderson, Moriarty, Sherlock. Gen, occasional angst.
1. Character Study: Anderson

__Written because Anderson gets such a bad rap in fanfic, and too often I've seen him and Donovan portrayed as these cartoon caricatures of schoolyard bullies. In truth, I feel sorry for them both.__

**Character Study: Anderson**

__Him __again. At __Anderson's __crime scene, rooting through __Anderson's __evidence, interfering with __Anderson's __job.

Every time there was something interesting, the __amateur __showed up with a snide remark, a sidelong jibe at Anderson's competence, and proceeded to explain in excruciating detail why everyone in the Yard was an "idiot". His lip curled in something closer to a snarl than a sneer as Holmes listed in verbal bullet-point the oblivious incompetence of Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, the entire team.

_That fucking psychopath._

"Idiot!"

Something in the way Holmes spit out the word set Anderson's teeth to clenching. He had his degree, he had experience, he wasn't on this team for _incompetence, _he certainly wasn't an idiot - no, no, his performance in university put the lie to that, whatever his marks in secondary school may have suggested -

_"_Christ, boy, look at these marks. I swear you're some stupid bastard's son and none of mine, not with your sister being so clever and me like I am. Or maybe you get the lack of brains from your ma, yeah?"__

His hand clenched too, a shaking fist at his side and he found himself glaring daggers at the amateur that Lestrade insisted on letting into Anderson's cases.

He'd proven his da wrong. Over and over. Studied so hard at uni that he'd made himself sick from stress and lack of sleep. Top of his class in the end. Forensics. The Yard. Up and up until he was __here___,_ clawed his way onto this team with diligence and work and attention to detail. A stupid, incompetent, oblivious person wouldn't have been __hired___, _much less be able to make it to Anderson's position.

He was not stupid.

He was __not___._

Something about his posture, or his expression, or maybe the seething fury that radiated from him - something about it earned him a sidelong glance from Holmes. And - was it his imagination, or did the amateur _s___mile? __Quick and dryly amused and gone before he could blink, but he could have sworn...

Holmes knew.

Of course he did, he was some sort of psychopathic savant (Anderson refused to credit Holmes with something so honest as study and hard work), it was uncanny how he managed to draw accurate conclusions from minuscule, seemingly irrelevant details. Of course he knew, he _knew _somehow about Anderson's brilliant (_addicted, manic, uncontrolled_) sister, he knew about the mantra of __stupid, idiot, lazy, useless, bastard __that his father drilled into his childhood and adolescence with belt-leather punctuation.

Outrage at Holmes' interference in his job, anger, old bitter pain, wounded pride - the entire cocktail of roiling emotions settled down into Anderson's gut and brewed there into something black and tar-sticky, something entirely like _hate._


	2. Character Study: Moriarty

**Character Study: Moriarty (A Monologue)**

I want to see him burn, oh yes, but it goes beyond that. That's the _end__,_ there's much more, _so much_ more -

Oh, he's beautiful, isn't he? You can't deny it. He _shines_, that acerbic tongue, that glittering mind, all that cold passion consuming him - bet you, _bet _you that's the real reason he's so wraith-thin. You can almost _see _it, the fire that powers him and consumes him, his skin so translucent, so -

Hmm. Oh, don't look at me like that! Hah, oh, don't you __know___? _We want the _s___ame thing!__

I want to peel back that carapace of his. I want to steal away his control bit... by... bit. See what he's like off his own leash because he _is _leashed, oh, you know it seems he speaks without thinking but speaking isn't the half of it. You want to see under his skin too, admit it! You want as much as I do to dig your fingers under the ice and untouchable storm of his countenance, you want to _touch_ that fire he keeps inside, see what makes him tick, what he's _feeling _there.

Me... I want to see him __break___._

I want to __make __him break, watch him flare with all of his fury and his pain and his passion, watch him crumble, open up his defenses and his guard until he's got nothing left to hide behind, until he's __raw__, until he __bleeds his heart out__ and I can taste it, sink my __teeth __into it...

No? Oh, come now. Of _course _you want that. You're already doing it. Don't know if I can get there without you, really. You're just _gentler _about it, getting under his skin with your steadfastness and banter and oh-so-quick loyalty. You want to touch the softness of him, too.

Then again, _you _want to protect and heal, comfort... and don't you know that's worse?

I at least won't be so cruel as to ease his loneliness and get him to depend on me, rely on me. I would never be so _sadistic _as to get him to _trust _me. Even Ihave lines I won't cross. Sherlock and I - we challenge each other, it's a game and we know it. You, though...

I do think I love him, a little, in my own way. He is __beautiful___, _after all, and such a __lovely __puzzle. You want to be the one to get through his shell... well, so do I! Shall we work together on it?

No? Haha, I don't need your __consent __to get your help on this one, John. Come now. Don't be naive. You've been a fantastic partner in crime already! Couldn't have gotten this far without you.


	3. Character Study: Sherlock

_Just some of the final scene in "The Great Game" from inside Sherlock's head. In part because I've been wanting to write it out since I saw the episode, and in part as an exercise in learning to write Sherlock's "voice"._

**Character Study: Sherlock**

"Bought you a little getting-to-know you present. That's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance... all to distract me from this."

Sherlock's grin had a manic edge, he knew it did, but oh did he love that rush of anticipation, an electric tingle setting his nerves afire, better than any drug. This was the high he chased, over and over. This game with Moriarty... best intellectual high in ages. He held the memory stick high, footfalls echoing in the dark of the pool, and then there was a creaking door and the hesitant sound of footsteps that were not his own. He looked over his shoulder, excitement sparking in his gaze, savoring it, and -

"Evening." John stood there, wrapped up in a coat, hands in his pockets.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock."

"John! What the hell...?" _John_, the name ringing in his head with a flash of betrayal; his skin prickled with something cold and dizzying (in the back of his mind he analyzed, matched physiological symptoms with emotional definitions gleaned from people more in touch with their feelings, and the label arose, almost clinical: _dread/shock_).

"Bet you never saw this coming," said the doctor in a flat monotone, so unlike the expressive voice he'd grown accustomed to...

How? How had he missed it? (There's always something, always missing _something_, something crucial, the obvious amongst the details...) He followed the line of reasoning back, back, searching through events and past interactions to find evidence of John as Moriarty all along.

[Hypothesis]: John is Moriarty _(betrayal/foolish/trusting gets you killed/no, no, self-incrimination later, focus now)._

[Analysis]: deeper game than I knew - he's here, his words, vocal incrimination, admission of guilt - final pip - where, where, surely there were signs before this - he's always around, of course he'd be able to see my every move, I _monologued _at him - think, there has to be evidence other than this -

While the bulk of Sherlock's mind busied itself with his initial reaction and the obvious conclusions _(it's never obvious, I'm missing something again, damnit)_, the remainder of his attention collected data, studying John, the pool room, searching for missing pieces.

Item: Jacket: heavy, closed.

Item: Pool room: temperate, warm and clammy. Estimate: 29 degrees Celsius.

Item: John's movements: Stiff, cautious, rigid even by military standards. Rapid blinking. Stilted voice.

Item: Wire: in John's ear, coiling up from inside the parka.

"What... would you like me to have him say... next," and John shifted, slowly opening the coat.

...Wires. A bomb. Of _course._

The final pip. John, yes, it's John but it's John as the victim, not John as the mastermind. John, leaving for Sarah's, walking, obviously 221B Baker Street was monitored, easy enough to grab him (not easy if he saw them coming, military training, holds his own in a fight; but John was angry _[at me - no, guilt later - thinking __now - focus]_, distracted, and not hyperaware at the best of times).

Sherlock's muscles loosened, tension easing (physiological symptoms associated with mood/emotion: relief), washing away the cold-prickles of betrayal. He scanned the room, probing the corners, shadows and alcoves for the real enemy, concealed somewhere...

"Gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear, gottle o'ge-"

Another tide of sensation, neurons on overdrive, a settling of weight in his gut, heavy and dark as his focus sharpened (preliminary diagnosis: fear? but not for my safety: John's? reminder: caring won't save anyone's life, detach, _detach_, have to think clearly) -

Sherlock found words then, voice cracking like a whip. "Stop it."

"Nice touch, this. The pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him and I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart." John's voice, speaking in a cadence so completely alien, words out of sync.

More symptoms - a rising pulse, increased body temperature. Hypothesis: Anger. "Who are you?" Sherlock asked the echoes of the pool.

Another creaking door. A voice, naggingly familiar. Nasal words. Footsteps, hard soles, dress shoes on tile. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

Grasp the gun, turn, aim.

"Both."

His mind stilled in that moment. Data collection: off. Fear: gone, replaced by frost and sharpness (diagnosis: cold, controlled fury). His thoughts crystallized, the world and all his attention narrowing to this, the view down the barrel of the Browning, the slight man with the too-large eyes and the mania-shrill voice, the words in the humid air.

Sherlock's mind was an ever-active thing, busy even in sleep or at leisure. It constantly multitasked, working through one problem in the forefront of his thoughts and sorting through additional data closer to the subconscious. Well-ordered noise, always observing, gathering information, organizing it, analyzing, deducing. The small ritual of applying a nicotine patch (or two, or three), steepling his fingers, closing his eyes, and _breathing _- that was the act of concentrating all his thoughts to a single difficult problem, rather than splitting his attentional resources five ways for efficiency. Yet even then it was racing, active, _noisy._

His thoughts had gone silent and cold and edged like this only a scarce handful of times in his entire life. It took serious danger and ice-white rage (not the hot anger that led to scattered papers and broken cookware, not the flash-point impulsive anger that resulted in shouting or insults). Fear, sometimes, like he'd not felt since childhood. Sometimes he could almost reach this state when training his body, boxing, or in the timeless suspension of the needle, slowing and muting the racing thoughts for some blissful, indulgent quiet.

In this razor-edged stillness, he could simply _act_, unhampered by second-guessing (cost/benefit analysis, possible outcomes, odds of incarceration).

In this silence, he was _dangerous_.

The world narrowed to Moriarty, their tense banter and droll witticisms. Sherlock's voice: edged, dry. Moriarty's: chimeric, fanged. The words came without thought. All his awareness was on the trigger until he could feel his own pulse on it, and it would be so easy, _so easy _to just squeeze with an exhalation of breath -

And yet he was handicapped, too. He might as well have had the safety on the gun for all the firing he'd do with a laser point on John's chest.


End file.
